Astray
by a certain slant of light
Summary: The princess and the pirate convene on the matter of poetry: the princess knows it to be tragic — the pirate knows her to be wrong. [BalthierAshe][REWRITE]


**Author's Note**: Formerly "The Beauty of Being Wrong." (I really hated that title. You don't even know.) Submitting this now, before I edit it to death. Oh yeah, baby, it's a rewrite of "Words of Comfort," you saw that right. Fixed the dialogue, replaced most of the narrative, polished the poem. I'll be updating "Thaw This Frost" as well, and speaking of Ashe, the second chapter of From Want to Need: Redux (my Bashe fic) will be up in a day or two. I'll probably wind up rewriting this again one day.

God, I can't believe I wrote this only in January. That seems like so far away now. All I remember of earlier this year was the crazy New Years Party (drunk plus Denny's equals not a good idea, because even though you think you want pancakes, no, trust me, you don't) (maybe try it high instead, that usually gets better results, food-wise) (ANYWAY) and Francais Langue 11. Onze. Seriously, why would you make that a number?

Anyway, revising it because… because I can! And because I can't think of anything new to do for FFXII, except a sequel for Payment as Repayment and… meh, I just don't feel like it. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Final Fantasy XII, nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc. Poem's mine, though.

* * *

"Astray"

Ashe left their temporary encampment, her path illuminated by sconces lining the tomb's walls like soldiers. Raithwall's catacombs proved more troublesome than she had anticipated: rather than a collection of stairs, there loomed a labyrinthine mess of corridors infested with the undead. Three hours they spent fighting their way to this level, and another seeking a safe place to sleep. Finally, Vaan, through fortune rather than skill (as most of Vaan's endeavors could be credited) found their haven: he grew tired and sat on a statue's foot, which led to a wall opening and much zombie slaying before they decided that post-pest control, it was livable.

Though the party needed rest, there was none to be had for the undead, or the devil-sent monsters lurking behind each beam and pedestal. But, with a good watch and good luck, they would make a peaceful night, and each feel the first relief since leaving the safety of the_ Strahl_.

She approached the entrance of their small alcove, curious who was on watch. When Balthier, the dashing _pirate_, came into view, against the wall with legs bent and arms rested on his knees, she was equal parts pleased and perturbed.

Balthier was proving a useful companion, but Vossler's concerns had not fallen on deaf ears. It was dreadful decorum to be dealing with a sky pirate, especially one of Balthier's renown. A watch was needed for him as much as for any ghost.

That aside, he was an interesting conversationalist, and hours of insomnia (with nothing to comfort her but the snap of tinder and the drawl of Vaan snoring) left her craving conversation. Most likely he'd only upset her, but upset was better than frustrated, and the vain upward quirk of Balthier's voice was preferable to the air passing in and out of Vaan's very loud nose.

"They say you write poetry." It was as good a line as any, though she could feel the hesitance in her voice. She quickly masked it with aloofness, back to the wall, eyes ahead.

"Who are they, pray tell?" he asked, infuriatingly ignorant of how little attention she was or wasn't paying.

"Vaan and Penelo, with an affirmation from Fran." She checked her nails. "Of course, I wouldn't have mentioned it without Fran's word. Are you published?"

"Not quite, princess. I merely dabble." He looked up at her, amused; she spared a glance, looking finely down her nose. "I wasn't aware you read poetry. I must admit I'm surprised."

"I don't," she corrected shortly. "And I wasn't aware you wrote, so in shock, we are evenly matched." Moments passed, the firelight crackling, displeased with the silence. "Naturally, one is led to wonder why you would fritter your time away with a quill when you could be plundering a treasury. Another means to impress the ladies?" Ashe wondered if all his hobbies stemmed from a one-track mind.

"You're to tell me women do not love poetry?" The embers reflected in his eyes, though they seemed to possess a fire all their own, that danced with merriment and wickedness. Ashe looked away. "My, it seems I've been going about this wooing business in all the wrong ways."

"Poetry is meaningless if you do not write with your heart."

"Am I to assume you are a poet, milady?"

She scoffed. "Hardly." The conversation was treading the exact path she'd assumed it would, and bargained would soon end in her walking away. "It's frivolous. These days, poets write with their heads, not their hearts; they think first of the public's love, and second of their own. Poetry is an ironic wreck."

"I can see you've little faith in the majesty of words," he mumbled. Though her eyes were glued to the dull stone before her, she could tell his had left her, for so had a heat on her skin.

"That's hardly the case. Words are wonderful, the root of civility. Poetry is nothing but an elaborate ruse to ensnare the gullible and naïve."

"You think me a predator then?" Balthier's tone was curious, light, amused; he chuckled, while she wrestled down a gag. "Or perhaps only a predatory poet."

"I've no doubt any poetry you'd write would be well-written indeed, but I'm afraid the sentiment would come from your britches, not your heart."

Balthier let out a hearty laugh that twirled along the air, dipping up and down with the shadows. No doubt he had been expecting a lonely watch. "You're keen on assumptions, I can see that. Perhaps you'd like a poem, then? If only to prove you wrong."

Ashe shook her head, arms crossed, heel digging into the wall against which she leaned. "I'd like nothing less. No amount of ink will court me to you, _pirate_." The last word, said with such disdain, practically slithered off her tongue. Balthier put a hand dramatically over his heart.

"So you see me as a heartless pirate who preys on women who _do_ appreciate the written word?" His eyebrows rose in merriment. "You think lowly of me, princess, to assume me such a common cad."

"A cad you may be, though common you are not. You romanticize your lust, though undressed it is nothing but the desire of all men." She looked at him frankly. "You, sir, are a dandy cad."

"Well, you are well informed of one thing," he said wickedly. "My desire does involve some level of undressing."

Ashe would have laughed if she were not taken so aback. The jumping of the fire matched the jumping of her heart, thumping angrily away in her chest. "Good night, _pirate_," she said curtly, then turned and stalked away.

"Good night, princess," he replied, "enemy of Archadia and all the world's poets."

* * *

Ashe discovered hours later onboard the _Shiva _that the toil of exploration was a war almost better left unwaged. Livid with her own carelessness, she paced the metal that encased them; the entire party was jailed by the empire's fleet, gone from a tomb of stone to a tomb of steel. Her hands balled into fists, wrists straining against her shackles. The imperial fleet had preyed upon them, allowed her to retrieve the Dawn Shard, and then swooped in and stolen it from her. The underhandedness made her sick with rage. 

"Nothing but tarses and vultures," she hissed, fury boiling within her. Her heart thundered – she feared it would burst, a mighty volcano, spewing cinders into her blood. Somewhere on the ship Ghis was cradling the shard, and Vossler's betrayal did nothing to cushion the blow to her dignity. Her stomach curled into a foul knot. This was not the way she would restore her country!

"Hardly a time for irrationality, princess," Balthier's voice, smooth as fine silk, cooed from behind her. "Not while in shackles, in any case."

"Oh, enough with you!" She spun to face him. "This is comfort to me? What women see in you I shall never know!"

Balthier rolled his eyes and ignored her comment. "Reach inside my pocket."

Ashe blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Reach inside my pocket."

Ashe looked around, relieved that the others were absorbed in conversation and strategy with each other: Basch had his back to her, deliberating alone; Penelo and Vaan were huddled together, hunched on their knees, drawing plans in the dust; Fran was far away, shuddering and muttering obscene curses.

She glared at Balthier. "This is no time for your nonsense, pirate!"

"_Princess_," he said evenly, though it was every bit the insult _pirate_ was when spilled from her lips, "if you would kindly do as I ask."

Furious but in no mood for his lingering presence, she humored him and reached a hand inside the pocket of his pants. She fought the heat in her cheeks harder than the heat in her heart, until her fingers brushed a slip of paper. Grasping it with white knuckles, she quickly withdrew her hand, her glare steady.

He was theatrical as ever. "Now, was that really so difficult?"

"What is this?"

He seemed to think on it for a moment, then a sly grin spread his lips.

"Words of comfort," he said simply and walked away. She stared after him as he began whispering things to Fran, and couldn't help but crumple the paper in her hands. Even if it were an escape plan, she did not want _his_ help. Humoring him once a day was far more than enough, she decided; she tucked the paper inside her boot and went to discuss their escape with Basch.

* * *

Time passed, with their elusion of the empire seeming ethereal. The hours spent delving through the catacombs of Raithwall's Tomb – only the other day – seemed as distant as the solstice. They were presently recuperating in a tavern in Rabanastre, the Sandsea, before restocking and continuing on to Jahara and the Garif village. 

The day was long, and her list of regrets longer. Emotionally exhausted and weary from the carrier ship's turbulence, Ashe tossed a few gil on the table, finished her drink, and left the others. After finding her way through a colossal tomb and then navigating an immense imperial airship, locating her room was a simple task. She slid the key in, entered and shut the door behind her, wanting nothing more than a dreamless sleep.

Ashe tucked her weapons neatly by the bed and undressed. She slipped on a nightgown and tidied her clothes for the following day, folding them and putting them aside. Everything was in proper place: her clothing on the nightstand, her boots at its base, and a funny little piece of paper resting at her feet.

"Words of comfort," she muttered darkly, reminded of the damned pirate who had taken her ring. Her conscience fought itself: one side demanded that she tear it to shreds and force feed it to Balthier, and the other was overcome with morbid curiosity. The battle was short and quickly won: curiosity reigned champion, crowned and proud. Ashe bent to pick up the paper and handled it with distaste, as if it were an ugly, dead thing, with limbs to straighten rather than edges.

Her eyes traveled over it, once reluctantly, then twice, bemused, then a third time, and a fourth, until the words seemed familiar.

_"To She Who Abhors Poetry,_

_In such a state as this we find,  
Camped in tombs of heart and mind,  
The writ of scroll and ink's romance,  
Is naught but fate's pursuit of chance._

_I'd hardly write to quell a thirst,  
Of mind than heart (lest britches burst);  
I'd rather thoughts of warm embrace,  
Than feign a life lived false, if chaste._

_Yet velvet tongue strikes keen my pleas,  
And fells me so from sky to knees,  
To pray in solemn king's repose,  
Thou revise the wife of prose:_

_Ne'er a maiden warm nor fair,  
With needled eyes and splintered hair,  
As thou may paint her portrait, cruel,  
Yet kind to all, scholar and fool._

_She sings for thee, a song well scribed,  
And hopes as I thine heart's belied,  
So kneel and kiss soft her hands,  
For, bride-to-bride, she understands,_

_The dark tomb of heart's sole lust,  
To love and be so, as mortals must.  
Then allow these words I've thought with heart,  
To spell your own when we're apart._

_Sincerely,  
A Dandy Cad"_

Ashe raised her hand to her mouth, fingers grazing her lips. Her eyes were lost on the page; some words were written messily, some neatly, some with great ink blots at the ends in which entire halves of letters drowned. But the penmanship was the furthest thing from her mind. Interpretation came the fourth time around, though the meaning was clear all along. It was less a love poem and more a sharp retort, but nothing so sharp as to quell the raging drumming of her heart.

* * *

The next morning, when she met the others at the table for breakfast, and spied Balthier sitting at the end (warmly rapt by Fran and seemingly oblivious to Ashe's presence), the flood of fire in her veins slowed to a steady magma. 

She still had not forgiven him for taking her ring, and his vanity continued to infuriate her, but from then on it was easier to take him with a grain of salt – and with a paper folded neatly in her blouse.


End file.
